Mills, Anita

by Autumn Rain

  "You were listening earlier," she accused him.

  "Well, as I could scarce go anywhere else, I could not avoid it."

  "I thought you slept."

  "Obviously." He closed his eyes, muttering, "Too weak for anything."

  "Dr. Beatty says we may begin restorative jellies," she offered.

  "What?"

  "Restorative jellies."

  He didn't open his eyes. "How very appetizing."

  "Well, I expect it will be better than the gruel."

  "Tell the old bonesetter that I require more food than he is inclined to give me."

  "The 'old bonesetter' saved your life," she reminded him.

  "My, how neither of you wishes credit for it," he murmured. "According to him, the blame belongs to you."

  "Fiddle. I did but what he told me."

  "Rather assiduously, I am told. A pity I was not awake to see you bathe me."

  The bond that she'd felt she'd shared with him in his darkest hours had gone, leaving a self-consciousness in its place. He was fast becoming Longford again, Sally Jersey's "dangerous man," and she felt a pang of regret for it. For the last week and a half, she'd been needed, useful, something more than the crowning jewel in Arthur Kingsley's collection. Now Arthur was recovering his mind and Longford would soon be able to leave, and once again she faced being nothing beyond a possession.

  He knew by her silence that he'd gone too far. "I know what I owe you," he said quietly. "And while I am not at all certain I am worth your effort, I thank you for it."

  "Sarah must think so."

  "Sarah? Who the devil's Sarah?"

  "I don't know—it was you who called for her when you were out of your head with the fever."

  His forehead furrowed momentarily, then he nodded. "Oh—that Sarah."

  "Your sweetheart?" she found herself asking, then wished she could get back the words. "Your pardon—I should not pry."

  "Sarah Wilson—Leftenant Wilson's wife. She tended the wounded at Salamanca." He tried to turn over and dissolved into a fit of coughing. She proffered a cloth quickly and he spat into it. Lying back, he waited to gain his breath. "Wilson died there."

  "Oh."

  Both fell silent until he felt it incumbent to say something. "Sorry for the boy."

  "I know." Her hands knotted the black skirt. "I know," she repeated softly. "I heard that often while you were sick." Again the silence was nearly deafening, broken only by the steady beat of the rain against the windowpanes. This time, it was she who felt the need to say something. "He wrote often of you, you know."

  "A great deal of nonsense, I'm afraid."

  "You mean there was no Spanish lady intent on wedding you?" she teased, trying to lighten the mood between them.

  "He wrote of that, too—eh?"

  "Yes."

  He grinned ruefully, then winced. "Damned shoulder-too sore to move." Once again, he closed his eyes as though that would somehow help him gain strength. "Near thing—family wanted to get her out of Spain."

  "But somehow the thought of trailing after you into battle deterred her."

  "No," he admitted baldly. "It was the notion that I was a savage that convinced all of them. I wore every weapon I possessed, then announced that madness ran in the family."

  "You ought to be ashamed."

  "I told you—I make a damnable husband." He coughed again. "God," he groaned, "it's enough to make me wish I had died."

  "You nearly did."

  "Too mean to die. It's the good that go."

  "Except Mad Jack." Once again, she could bite her tongue for the words that slipped out. He lay there, his eyes still shut, his jaw working, the only sign that he'd heard her. "I did not mean to pain you, my lord," she said finally. She turned to leave. "Mary will be here directly to feed you."

  "No."

  "You cannot manage it yourself."

  "No," he repeated. "You did not pain me—I hated him."

  "Well, there are times I cannot say I care very much for my father either," she admitted. "But I am tiring you with speech."

  He waited until she reached the door, and when he heard it creak inward, he spoke again. "Don't want the girl—spills too much on me."

  "Mrs. Peake, then."

  "Gives me indigestion."

  She closed the door after her, taking some small measure of satisfaction in the notion that he still needed her for something.

  He dozed for a time, waking only at the sound of the door again. Forcing his eyes open, he was surprised to see Arthur Kingsley himself, his bony hand pressing heavily on the ebony cane, his steps slow and measured as he crossed the room. The old man stopped at bedside and dropped into the straight-backed chair there. Leaning forward, resting both hands on the silver-handled walking stick, he peered into Lucien's face, studying it before he spoke.

  "Longford."

  "There is no accounting for survival, is there?" Lucien murmured.

  "No."

  Without preamble, the old man admitted, "I read the boy's journal, though I collect you brought it to my wife."

  "I thought he would wish it."

  Arthur Kingsley nodded. "I gave it to her, you know."

  The faded eyes watched Lucien, then the baron mused, "He was the first I ever heard of as had anything good to say of you."

  "My lamentable reputation."

  "Regrettable." The old man cleared his throat. "I collect you mean to live."

  "Apparently I am too mean not to."

  "I always thought you a ruthless man—did what you wanted and damned those as objected. I like that. Shows—"

  "A decided lack of character," Lucien said, interrupting. "I know what I am." Once again the awful cough racked his body, hurting him. He winced visibly."

  "Come by it honestly. In the blood, after all. I remember when your mother died and it was said—"

  "I know the rumors," Lucien snapped.

  "Any truth to 'em?" the old man persisted. "Don't mind the other, you understand," he hastened to add as Lucien's color rose. "Just don't want any insanity in m'heir, that's all."

  It occurred to Lucien then that Kingsley's mind had snapped, and that his recovery was physical rather than mental. Still, he forebore reminding him that Charles had perished.

  "Well, I cannot say I have any great familiarity with your family," he conceded. "But there are not many who do not admire the size of your fortune."

  "Elinor is a beauty—you got to admit that. When I took her to town, there wasn't a buck's head as did not turn."

  "An Incomparable," Lucien agreed.

  "Don't look like a milk and water miss—got color. Gave her style, too."

  "Striking," Lucien murmured, wishing that Mary or anyone would come, for the old man was making him uncomfortable.

  "Still in the bloom of youth—twenty next month. Isn't much for her to do here. Daresay she could be ripe for anything, don't you think?"

  Somehow it angered Lucien that Kingsley could think that after all he owed Elinor he would be so base as to consider seduction. "You are better advised to discuss this with Bell Townsend," he declared stiffly.

  "Don't want him. Fellow's a gamester, and I don't need that on both sides of the blanket. I did not work to see my money disappear at the likes of White's." He leaned closer, so close that his eyes were but inches from Lucien's. "I want an heir with wits enough to keep what I leave him."

  The old man was crazed—his grief had made him mad. Nonetheless, Lucien answered, "Most empires fall, so you must not repine over what cannot be. Another generation and neither of us will be remembered."

  "There will be a Baron Kingsley here."

  "My dear Arthur—"

  "Think I've lost m'mind, don't you? Haven't. Been thinking about it ever since I read the boy's journal, waiting to see if you meant to live." His eyes seemed to bore into Lucien's. "You can name your price, Longford—all you got to do is give me m'heir."

  It was the first time in recent memory that Lucien could truthfully a
dmit to being stunned. "Sir," he managed when he found his voice, "what you suggest is repugnant in the extreme."

  "Elinor's got a soft heart," the old man went on as though he'd made no objection at all. "Ripe," he repeated. "Ready for a young buck like you. And you need not worry that I don't mean to acknowledge any babe you get of her, 'cause I've got nobody else I'd want to leave anything to." He leaned back, chuckling wryly. "Irony, don't you see?"

  "No," Lucien snapped.

  "Man my age getting a babe. But you must be discreet about it—I don't mean to be pitied. I'd have it thought it was mine." He stopped, smiling smugly. "Well?"

  "Regardless of what you think me, I've no wish to take advantage of your wife in her grief. She cared for Charles, you know. And as you can see, I am in no case—"

  "Not as you think, my dear Longford—not as you think." Kingsley cut him off. "Having observed them closely and having read his letters to her—and hers to him—I believe the passion was his."

  "She mourns him!"

  "Of course she does," Kingsley agreed. "But who is to say for what?" he added enigmatically.

  "You sicken me, sir. If you would have an heir, I suggest you get your own."

  The smile vanished. "If I could, I'd not ask you."

  "No."

  Arthur sighed. "I should not be hasty in denying what I offer. The child will have every advantage the Kingsley fortune can gain him." He rose slowly. "Think on it," he advised. "As you said, you are in no case to do much else yet, anyway. Otherwise, I shall have to encourage Townsend—or Leighton."

  "George wouldn't do it," Lucien growled.

  Kingsley shrugged. "A beautiful woman—a husband willing to be blind—are you quite certain?"

  "What sort of man are you? You cannot just throw your wife at another man's head!" Again, he wished he'd not raised his voice, for now he nearly strangled from the cough. "No."

  The old man smiled enigmatically. "The question, my dear Longford, is what sort of man are you? I had expected rather more from Mad Jack de Clare's son, I suppose." He started for the door, stopped, and turned back. "We both know what sort of man Townsend is, don't we?"

  Long after the old man left, Lucien stared at the ceiling, telling himself he was so sick he'd imagined the whole thing. But he knew he hadn't. It was Arthur Kingsley who was sick—it was Arthur Kingsley who would push Elinor into Bell's all-too-willing arms. And he'd be damned before he let him do it.

  CHAPTER 24

  Had Bellamy Townsend been a praying man, he'd have asked first for Longford's immediate and total recovery, and second for an end to what seemed to be early and interminable rains. For despite his daily visits to Stoneleigh, she took him at his word that he meant to help with Lucien, and he seldom seemed to get Elinor Kingsley's undivided attention. It was beginning to wear on his temper. On this day, nearly three and one-half weeks since the earl had had the misfortune of nearly dying on Stoneleigh's doorstep, he not only was still there, but he did not appear anywhere close to leaving.

  "Your move, Bell," Lucien murmured across the chess board. He sat back and waited. "You know," he chided, "I'd say neither your heart nor your mind is in the game."

  "It's the rain," Bellamy muttered. He looked up resentfully. "Don't suppose as you've given any thought to removing yourself back to Langston Park?"

  Lucien shrugged. "Beatty is against it."

  "Country bonesetter!" Bell snorted.

  One black eyebrow lifted. "If I did not know you better, I should suspect you see me as some sort of rival, old fellow."

  "See you as a deuced dog in the manger!" Townsend leaned across the board and lowered his voice. "You've got no interest in that quarter, and you know it, but how the devil am I to pay court to Lady Kingsley when you are always about? Every time I suggest an entertainment to her, it seems I end up playing nursemaid to you," he observed with disgust. " 'I am sure Longford would enjoy that,' " he mimicked. He sat back and sighed. "Sorry—rain makes me out of reason cross, I guess. I know it's not your fault, but I don't seem to be any closer to fixing her interest now than before. And I didn't mind the pounding thing either, if it helped you." Having vented his frustration, he moved his queen.

  "Quite certain you wish to do that?" Longford murmured, unperturbed.

  "How the devil should I know? It's not my game. Now if you was to get out the dice—"

  "You already owe me a thousand pounds this week," Lucien reminded him. "Check."

  "I quit," Bell declared, disgusted. "Where the deuce do you think she is? Thought she meant to join us."

  "I daresay she is attending to Kingsley." A faint smile twitched at the corner of the earl's mouth. "I believe she wished to give me the benefit of masculine companionship. She seems to think I must find being surrounded by females onerous."

  "Kingsley!" Townsend fairly spat out the word. "How long can the old gent last, I ask you?" he demanded rhetorically. "A month ago he was out of his head."

  "He seems to have recovered his wits," Lucien muttered dryly. "In fact, he comes to visit me."

  "It's all of a piece, I suppose—like the Fates don't mean for me to have her."

  "I suspect it's the pursuit that intrigues you, old fellow. If she fell into your arms, I daresay you'd be gone in a trice."

  "Much you know of it. If we are speaking of constancy, I don't think you are noted for that either." Bell ran his hand through his blond Brutus, contributing to its fashionable disorder. "Thing is, I cannot stay with Leighton forever, you know."

  "You could go back to London for the Little Season."

  "And leave the field to you?"

  "You have admitted I have no interest in that quarter," Longford reminded him.

  "Daresay you could get one."

  "I expect to be returning to the Park next week. Besides"—Lucien paused, waiting for Bell to react to that, then went on—"besides, I am not noted for seducing other men's wives, am I?"

  Bellamy flushed. "Told you—got good intentions this time, Luce. If you was to get out of the way—"

  The old man's words seemed to echo in Lucien's ears.

  For all that he denied it, he'd thought often of Kingsley's suggestion. Indeed, but it was a good part of his reluctance to leave, but not for the reason the baron supposed. He knew if he went, the old man would encourage Bell. Before he returned to Langston Park, he supposed he would have to suggest to Leighton that Townsend had stayed overlong.

  He rose and rubbed his still-tender shoulder. "I think I shall retire for a while, Bell."

  That irked Bellamy also—while he cooled his heels waiting for Elinor Kingsley to favor him with her company, Longford ran tame in her house. And if Lucien went up, and she did not come down, he'd have to leave.

  "Dash it, Luce! You go to bed, and I've got to go home in the rain!"

  "Have you never thought that perhaps she finds your company onerous, old fellow? After the wager at White's..." He let his voice trail off meaningfully.

  "Made it up with her and Kingsley," Bell retorted. "Sally Jersey saw to that." Realizing that the earl was indeed leaving him, he coaxed, "A hand or two of anything, Luce."

  "My shoulder pains me." Lucien put his hand on the doorknob, then turned back. "The field is yours, Bell."

  "In case you have not noted it, she's not down."

  "I daresay you could wait."

  Townsend wavered. "How long d'you think she'll be?"

  "Well, I believe she is reading The Iliad to him."

  "All of it?"

  "As to that, I am afraid I cannot say," Lucien lied.

  "Damn!"

  The viscount sat staring at the chess board after Longford left. In all of his nine and twenty years, he'd never found a female yet that he could not bed. He had looks, wealth, style, and address, and he'd be hanged if he could tell that Elinor Kingsley had noted any of it. To give Longford his due, maybe he was right—maybe that was why he wanted her, maybe it was the difficulty of the chase. He was beginning to feel as though he were making
a cake of himself over her, that maybe he ought to try a bit of indifference. Maybe Luce was right—maybe he ought to go back to London until she was done grieving over Charles Kingsley. If she had any interest in him at all, he'd leave word where she could find him.

  A glance to the window told him what his ears had already heard—it was raining hard outside. He rose, sighing heavily, and called for his hat. If there was any consolation in the dreary day, it was that at least she could not be interested in a cold fellow like Longford.

  Lucien heard the butler wish Bell a good day before the outer door closed. Stopping at Elinor Kingsley's door, he rapped lightly with his knuckles, then told her, "You can come out now, my dear—your swain is gone."

  She opened the door sheepishly. "Is it that obvious?" she murmured. "And he is not my swain."

  "Actually, I believe he aspires to be your cicisbeo."

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  That was one of the things he'd come to like about her—despite all that Kingsley had done to her, despite the extraordinary beauty she possessed, there was an utter naivete about her—not a stupidity, but rather a desire to expect better of a man than she ought to.

  She stepped out into the hall. "Actually, I do not mind Lord Townsend upon occasion."

  "So I informed him."

  "Well, I hardly think it your place to do so, my lord."

  "Did you wish to?" he inquired, lifting one black brow.

  "No, of course not. I could not."

  "The difference between us, Lady Kingsley, is that I do not mind being unkind."

  She looked up at him, regarding him almost soberly for a minute. "Perhaps it is that I know you now," she said softly, "but I should not count you unkind at all."

  "Then you are a fool, my dear." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt the greater fool for saying them. After all she'd done for him, she deserved better than that. "Your pardon—my unruly tongue."

  "I daresay I have heard worse from you, my lord, so I shall not refine too much upon anything." She smiled faintly. "You forget—it was I as heard you rave and rant. You'd best have a care, you know, for I am possessed of your secrets."